


unfinished history

by kaeg



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Academy Era, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 14:07:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13032768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeg/pseuds/kaeg
Summary: The whole world may be out there, waiting for Paul to uncover its secrets, but this—this is the only world Paul wants to know, right now. If he uncovers all of Hugh’s secrets and treats them with the gentleness and care he would a galaxy, he thinks they’ll be alright.(aka: soulmate au where the first words your soulmate says to you are written on your skin. academy era)





	unfinished history

**Author's Note:**

> this exists solely because i owe culber and stamets my life
> 
> notes:  
> \- mccoy exists in this timeline because why the heck not  
> \- some of the background characters are just invented cos i've only seen disco, aos and tos so i'm not up to date with my logic  
> \- this is 150% headcanons and stuff i made myself so i have legit no sources for any of this!!!!!!  
> \- if any of you know straal's first name pls let me know
> 
> pls enjoy!!!

_Hey—stifle it, or sit somewhere else._

Hugh wakes up to these words curled around his shoulder when he is four years old. And he’s been waiting for this moment—in his short life, Hugh has heard more mention of soulmates than he can recall, from friends and family who show off their marks or attempt to cover them up completely. He’s seen people’s words against their skin, half-hidden by fabric or plain for the world to see, stark black or a fading grey.

He knows what soulmates are. He knows the logistics—what it means, how it works, how you _know_.

But now, _these words_ , they mean that he _has_ one. That second part of his soul is still to be found, and now it’s guaranteed that at some point, it _will_ happen.

He shows the mark to his parents at breakfast that morning, and their reactions are far from calm. His mother springs up from the table, almost knocking her glass over in the process, and approaches Hugh to inspect it. He pulls his too-long sleeve further down his shoulder to show it off.

And his father, well—he _laughs._ He laughs because Hugh calls out the words with the excitement of a child with a life ahead of them, who is sure that everything’s already planned out. He laughs at the harshness of the sentence, and from that alone, he can kind of tell who Hugh’s soulmate will be.

He will be one of those loves you have to work with; you have to force their hand, a little, to make them believe you in the first place. You have to teach them it’s true.

He can imagine Hugh chasing his own tail, stumbling after somebody who asked him to _stifle it_ on first meeting, and can’t wait to hear the stories.

He hopes, anyway. He won’t let his son, this wonderful mind and true, beating heart, settle for anything less than _good._ He refuses to believe the world will take this childish hope and sabotage it; he refuses to believe there’s a dark path that Hugh will be forced to follow.

No. Hugh’s soulmate will be worth it. A part of him can tell.

But he doesn’t explain this to Hugh, with his full eyes and broad smile, so he claps him on the shoulder—the one with the smooth, unmarked skin; not the special one, now—as he leaves the kitchen that morning.

As Hugh grows, he keeps track of the little things he can be sure of: he notes the stardate of his soulmate’s birthday, and counts the years as they go; he notes the year his soulmate is starting school, and thinks about the year they’ll be leaving it; he thinks about the way there was no room for doubt for Hugh’s other half. They’ve had their soulmark from birth, right there and visible, the words _a part_ of them.

Hugh grows, and begins to long for love, or the forever-equivalent, and really can’t wait for it to arrive. He begins to age with the years, and yet _those words_ still sit on his skin, their rightful resting place.

He watches as people inspect them with wonder, while others laugh, and some wish for something similar. He starts to learn that some people don’t have soulmarks; some people don’t want them, and some have their marks fade to grey before their soulmate is found.

He learns a lot about the world. He learns about tragedy from news broadcasters and the local rumor mill; the way two woman walked down opposite streets, and when their words were said, they ran. He learns that sometimes illness can take and keep taking, and all you can do is watch while life and soulmarks are stripped away.

Except Hugh has never been one for sitting around. He starts telling anybody who will listen that he’s going to become a doctor. Some people laugh, and some provide him with false enthusiasm, but his good results become perfect ones in school, and within years he has his eye on _one thing:_

Starfleet.

 

* * *

 

Paul falls in love with his garden; his mother jokes, says if the flowers could speak, Paul would have a soulmark for them, instead.

But it’s been a long time coming. There’s only so much to busy himself with before Paul decides to venture out into that beautiful expanse of green for longer than he’s usually permitted, sheltered under trees and beside rivers. There’s only so much he can do before he finds himself laying out there everyday, taking it all in.

He _could_ be doing his schoolwork, and he _could_ be helping his mother figure out how exactly their new dispenser works, and yet—the leaves, and the water, and the _flowers._

And he’s fine with staring at them all day, with doing his homework with mud on his knees and water on his hands, with _admiring_ it all, but then it’s his tenth birthday and his parents let him take up gardening.  

And they definitely don’t disappoint. Paul wakes up and he’s given free reign to buy any and all flowers he wants, be them earth-born or otherwise (as long as there aren’t any implications with the growing process, since not all plants are very keen to grow in that specific soil). He sits around for _hours_ and he digs and waters and plants, and he gets dirt under his nails and in his hair and on his face but he really couldn’t care less, and his parents watch on with delight as they see their son be so invested in something for the very first time.

And all this continues for a long while, and as the years pass Paul keeps it up; it feels like the biggest constant in his life, so far. It’s the one thing he can turn to, no matter what the world throws at him.

(That’s not strictly true. Because he’s a boy born with destiny’s words on his skin and in his soul, and he has always known that there’s a person out there that’s his equal. When he thinks about gardening like it’s his only true purpose, he feels a pang of affection rise from near his rib cage, and sends a signal back just as strong. Because yes, his hobby may be his biggest constant, but that’s only because his soulmark has never left him; he doesn’t need to prioritize love when he’s had it every day. It’s a part of all that he is, and he can’t separate it from himself, anymore.

What he wants to do in life will change. The love of his life will not. And somehow, that feels a little more constant than anything the stars and the sky could provide.)

He feels as though he can shield himself from anything the world throws, as long as he has this little space he’s created.

Except for when his shield falters, and the world is stronger. Except for when there’s a storm that rages for days, and the streets all flood and the trees snap and collapse into the grass, and when the sky finally returns to light blue and they’re all allowed to go outside, Paul’s garden is—

It’s not there. And it should be, because it takes up practically the entire space at the back of their home, but there’s nothing. All the roots have been uplifted. The soil is dark and waterlogged.

It feels like the biggest betrayal he’s ever had to live through, and it’s on that day that Paul realizes that he has to begin preparing for the worst in every scenario. He doesn’t cry, and that becomes a trend as he grows; he never feels the need, or maybe he feels like nobody should see it happen. Maybe all of life has become so public that he feels the need to hide from himself. But with his work destroyed, and everything set back to start, it’s like everything he ever wished for is gone.

He didn’t realize how proud he could be of something he’d done, until then. He didn’t realize that sometimes, your work can matter more than yourself. But your work can also be scrapped faster than your soul, so it obviously has to go through a little more wear and tear.

He has been upset for days, when his father finally speaks to him. It hasn’t been anything serious; that gentle kind of upset, where you frown a little more and speak a little less and it all becomes blurry.

(When Paul is older, and he finds himself navigating through space on a daily basis, he realizes that sometimes the years _do_ blur together. Sometimes that gentle kind of upset lasts for years, and it _does_ become his normal. Sometimes there’s only one thing, one _person,_ who can help him navigate his way out of it.)

He comes home from school, and he barely has his foot in the threshold before his father is not-so-subtly directing him in the direction of the kitchen.

Then his father starts talking about Starfleet, and it’s the happiest he’s been in days.

Paul knows this is some kind of plot to have him become interested in something new. He _knows,_ because it’s all his parents talk about, and they’re not as quiet as they think.

So when they usually do this, he rolls his eyes and storms out the nearest door. But this, _Starfleet,_ has caught his attention.

He knows what Starfleet is, of course. It’s _everywhere—_ their mission of peace between all planets, in all galaxies, by means of diplomacy. Space-travel, climbing the ladder from cadet to captain; he knows all about that aspect.

He never knew there was so much _more._ He never knew there was more to the Federation than becoming captain, or spending your entire life building up to it. So when his father hands him his dinner and starts talking about scientists, and chief medical officers, and chief engineers, something in his mind quietens. He’s told about how important Starfleet is, how brilliantly their work has been done, how he could rise through the ranks to become a scientist in a field he wants to pursue.

A scientist. He could be a _scientist._

A few months down the line, with a reinvigorated sense of purpose and a new dedication to his craft, Paul stumbles upon a book about astromycology, and—well. Everything shifts.

 

* * *

 

People in school keep fighting, and Hugh _really_ doesn’t understand.

He understands the reasons behind it, of course. A stolen coat, a rumour spread, any and all _I-think-this-Starfleet-officer-is-a-disgrace-to-the-federation_ talk; anything can feed a fire. Usually, things are sorted after a quiet moment with a teacher, and revoked lunchtime yard privileges.

Not this time. Not when there are two girls pushing at shoulders and pulling at hair on the gravel, falling and scraping knees, because one of their fathers has dedicated his life to the exploration of the galaxy and the other thinks working at Starfleet is a death sentence.

And everyone in the yard thought it would just be another squabble, but one girl, with dark skin and black hair, always brings her PADD outside with her. She waltzes around the playground and talks to her father at the same time every day. Nobody ever sees her as happy as she is in those moments.

But now that same PADD, with years worth of memories, is lying crushed against the floor. And the two girls, one’s pale blue skin stained with blood just above her lip and the other’s with tears to match, are punching and pulling, kicking and screaming, and all Hugh can think is how war has never been anything more than a catalyst for the loss of hope.

The teachers arrive, eventually. The blue-haired girl— _is her name Gretta? It might be Gretta_ —is hauled into the headmaster’s office without a moment spared.

There's a medical officer, too, wielding hyposprays and bandages labelled with medical-track insignias. But the girl’s still crying. She’s pushing herself further and further back against the trunk of a tree, and this medical officer must be new—they’re fiddling with the hypo like a foreign tool of torture, flipping it over in their hands and pressing the wrong end to the girl’s wrist, telling her to, ‘stay _still_ , little one, or a sprained wrist will be the least of your worries. The headmaster’s going to have it in for you, I swear. Fighting over tedious things with other lovely girls? Where were your parents to teach you manners?’

The girl starts crying again, and the medical officer won’t stop _,_ and Hugh can’t sit here. In all his nine year-old glory, he storms across the yard toward the idiot with the hypospray, and all but snatches it out of their hands.

They do an almost comedic double take when they meet Hugh’s eye, mouth open wide in shock, and…disgust?

But Hugh stands his ground. He grips the hypo like a vice. ‘Let me do it.’

And at that, the officer— _Mr. Jameson,_ his badge reads—gapes. ‘I am a _trained medical—’_

Hugh’s not having any of it. He crosses his arms, and spares a smile to the girl on the ground; she smiles back, and it feels like hope. ‘Let me _do it_.’

And eventually Mr. Jameson disappears, his medkit left open on the ground like a surrender. Hugh reaches down to close it with half-shaky hands, and drops down next to the girl in the grass.

The lunchtime bell is sounding, signalling their need to retreat back inside. And yet, here they stay, huddled under a tree.

It takes all but seconds for the girl to begin to calm down. Hugh figures out that yes, the hypo is a painkiller, and presses it gently to the girl’s neck.

‘I’m Hugh Culber,’ he tells her, and she doesn’t even notice the slight sting that always accompanies hypos as they break skin. ‘What’s your name?’   

Everything in this medkit is _terribly_ old-fashioned, Hugh notes; small cotton balls and a disinfectant, bandages and plasters. But this is all he would have at home, anyway, so he starts cleaning up the girl’s bleeding elbow, both her knees, the tiniest scratch on her cheekbone that’s covered by her hair.

She sniffles a little, and wipes her nose in her sleeve. ‘Liz.’

‘Liz, huh?’ Hugh smiles. ‘Is that short for Eliza, or something?’

Liz shakes her head, but stills again when Hugh rubs at the dribble of blood that has begun to trail down her cheek. ‘No, just Liz. I was supposed to be Elizabeth, but my dad wrote—’

She stops herself, then. She looks up at Hugh with too-wide eyes, and he understands. He can’t empathize, but he understands what she’s feeling.

Her eyes fill with tears again, but Hugh won’t let anybody in his care cry.

‘Your dad?’ He begins again, for her, because she shouldn’t have to be scared to talk about her father.

She pauses for a moment. She looks around, checking for passers-by, and then smiles down at the grass. Her fingers comb through it.

Her smile turns into an over-exaggerated, childish grin. Her tongue pokes out between her teeth. ‘I was supposed to be Elizabeth but then Daddy wrote Liz on my certifi— _certicifate_ , and he said it suits me better, and now he says I’m _definitely_ gonna be a captain because all the captains have cool names.’

And, yeah—that’s better. This is the kid Hugh likes to see.

He laughs a little, and she laughs too. He makes sure to pull out the command-track bandages hidden in the medkit, pressing one to her cheekbone. ‘Captain Liz.’

She shakes her head then, with as much force as she can. ‘Nooo, Captain _Cross_.'

‘Of course, Captain Cross,’ Hugh repeats, humming, and Liz grins.

They get called back inside a few minutes later, and Hugh presses the medkit into the medical officer’s curling hands. Liz is directed into the headmaster’s office, but she’s smiling, now. Hugh murmurs a, _“good luck, Captain Cross”_ as he is escorted back to class, and Liz giggles before the door clicks shut.

Liz’s PADD is replaced a month later, and just as fall departs to make way for winter, Hugh receives a letter of thanks from a Lieutenant Cross, saying that there’ll be a place on a starship for Hugh, someday, with a caring nature like that.

 

* * *

 

Paul _loves_ Starfleet.

If anything, it’s the way so many people believe in order, and discipline, and getting the job done. Half of his year acts like every night is a party, but the other half are just like him: dedicated to their craft, sure of what they want.

That doesn’t mean Paul can’t enjoy a night off, every once in awhile, all the same.

He was like the rest of his classmates when he first arrived off the shuttle at the academy; terrified, confused, and slightly nauseous. Some students arrived days late, and some second guessed their decision to enroll. Everything was on the wrong footing, and ended up embracing it.

Everyone except Paul. Because being on the wrong footing feels like floating out in the black to him, and if he needs anything, it’s routine.

Maybe when he first got here, he was a little terrified. Maybe the upperclassmen were all towering in their too-tight uniforms, planning for his demise; maybe the jokes about consistently getting high off his research started to go sour; maybe his lack of involvement in extracurriculars and social events in exchange for another night of studying fungi went more than a little unnoticed by his classmates, until he often felt like a ghost trapped in a corner.

Maybe he’s lonely, sometimes, but it’s terrifyingly worth it. Astromycology astounds him like nothing else, and he does everything he can to strive in his field, in this ability to go on to search through the unknown for the foundations of… _everything._  

He wants to get down to the bottom of this world, of what shaped it.

But his roommate isn’t having any of that, tonight. Straal, the genius he is, is also able to balance a social life with his studies—something that Paul can’t quite understand, and can very much live without.

But Straal is expecting him any minute, and Paul promised—they’re going to a party in some Orion girl’s dorm two floors down. He can hear the music from up here, the overlapping beats of modern and classical. He hears his colleagues and classmates laughing, probably drinking, making friends and memories. Straal waits outside, tapping his foot against the floor, pacing back and forth in anticipation for the night ahead.

And it might just be anxious anticipation, but Paul thinks tonight might go well. He looks good in his non-standard apparel, his red cadet slacks tucked deep into the closet. With his Tarsus V report finished, and his research on mycelium coming along nicely, he doesn’t even have to worry.

_This_ feels like the Starfleet experience he’d heard about. It’s kind of nice.

But now—a party. A party, with a bunch of irresponsible young adults drinking, throwing up on each other, and starting fights over nothing. He plans to stick close to Straal and the others in his classes. If he does that, he won’t get caught up in any kind of scandal.

(He doesn’t miss his soulmark in the mirror, as much as he wants to. He shrugs on his jacket, and his shirt hoists up just a little, and ah—there.

_I think I’m happy, right where I am._

He knows the words like poetry. He’s studied them in his younger years, says them over and over in his head. He remembers the way he’d seen the words there since before he could speak, the smallest block-capital scribble along his lower ribs. He remembers his parents saying that he’s oh, so lucky, to be born with his future completely planned out.

The whole _soulmate_ thing seems a little less important right now, with all the research to do and all the years to survive before he’s on a ship that feels like home, a _science vessel_ —but the thought of love is nice.)

Paul fixes his hair one last time, and disappears out the door to meet Straal in the hallway.

 

* * *

 

The Orion girl a building over is throwing a party. Hugh can hear it from his dorm, and the sound fills the storage-cupboard-sized space he occupies.

He rubs gently over his shoulder, his soulmark, as he thinks; writes another sentence.

And something almost… _sparks,_ there. Not so much a flame, but a gentle kind of heat, a soothing kind. And the heat is so prominent that he almost gives up on his work, and he eyes the door like it provides him all the answers, because maybe a party would be good for him. He _had_ been invited, after all. Maybe he needs a little time to wrap his head around everything, because he hasn’t had a minute to spare since he arrived at Starfleet, and he has forgotten the definition of free time.

He moves to stand up, but decides against it.

He would go, but partying won’t put him at the top of his class, and it won’t get him those extra shifts at the hospital that Dr. Benitz and Cadet McCoy have been badgering on about, and he won’t get that single dorm that’s been lying empty at the end of his hall.

He has a plan, and he’s going to ride it out, even if it means his social life gets scrambled, and plans for friends are put away for future days.

He’ll have time for all that once he has stability. He has priorities.

His soulmark nags at him again, that faithful, longing sting; _wait for the days to come,_ it sings, and with that, Hugh works.  

 

* * *

 

Paul blinks awake blearily as their dorm room door is thrown open, and then slammed shut. He groans at the noise, turns over and pressed his forehead against the cool expanse of the wall, pulling the covers over his head.

And then somebody is poking him in the leg. A pillow drops down onto his head with a thump.

_'_ _Straal—’_ Paul groans, and his voice is weak and croaky from lack of use. He hears Straal laughing from across the room.

‘It’s 0900, Stamets,’ Straal says. He’s shuffling around the room, opening drawers and searching through them. ‘Don’t tell me you were planning on spending the first day of summer break sleeping.’

After Paul grumbles out an unintelligible string of noises, he huffs. ‘You can’t judge me.’

‘Yes, I can,’ Straal hums, and then he’s taking back his pillow from atop Paul’s mess of hair.

But then he lingers, and he’s pulling away the covers. Bright light floods Paul’s senses from the windows, where the blinds had never been pulled. ‘You’ve gotta seize the day, man.’

_'You_ go seize the day,’ Paul mutters, and, yeah—not the greatest comeback.

With one eye open, Paul can see Straal move. He watches as Straal grabs a small journal from his bed before crouching down next to Paul, leaning forward and pressing his chin to the cool meta of the bed frame.

‘Hey, Paul,’ Straal begins, and _that’s_ new. He never uses _Paul,_ not in casual conversation. When Paul doesn’t answer, Straal pokes his leg, and then pinches his arm.

_'What?'_  Paul says, voice filled with as much anger as one can convey on an early Thursday morning.

Straal is smiling. Paul can tell. He’s been silent for a considerably long time, which is never good—

‘Let’s go to Alpha Centauri,’ Straal says; totally serious. ‘We’ll make it a holiday, a week or two. Celebrate the success of our first year at Starfleet.’

And at that, Paul rolls over. He meets Straal’s eyes with something exasperated, but the other man just grins. ‘You’re serious.’

Straal shrugs, and clasps his hands. ‘Completely.’

‘We can’t just go to Alpha Centauri,’ Paul says, and it’s a terrible protest. Straal has quoted Starfleet regulation to him in his sleep; he knows the rules.

‘Why not?’

‘Wouldn’t we need…permission? Or something?’ Paul mumbles, and tries to turn away. Straal grabs his arm to stop him.

‘Permission from _who?’_ Straal says. ‘Most of the professors are leaving for the summer, too. Plus, we have no obligations here for the next three months. I wanna make the most of it.’

And Paul really knows that they _can_ go to Alpha Centuari. Hell, they could go anywhere, and Straal’s right _—_ there’s practically no boundaries in summer (except not to get up to any funny business in federation uniform). He knows that he could ship off right now, but his bed is so comfortable, and he’s _very_ tired, and he’d really planned on hobbling around campus for the next couple weeks before venturing home to his family.

His parents had told him not to come home—not because they don’t want to see him, but because they want him to go exploring, and live life for himself. They want him to meet new people and find new interests; not sit at home and retell his year, bored out of his mind.

The offer is tempting, though. He’s never been sightseeing on Alpha Centauri before.

And when he realizes his mind is already made up, he looks up at the ceiling, and sighs. His body practically deflates. ‘How far away is it, anyway?’

‘Four-ish lightyears. It wouldn’t take more than two hours, y’know. I could fly us.’

Paul starts to climb out of bed, and Straal makes a small sound of victory, throwing a fist in the air. Paul glares. ‘Yeah, ‘cause I’m putting _my life_ in _your_   _hands.'_

Straal stands up after him, blocking the way between their beds and the clothes compartment. ‘Are we going or not, Stamets?’

And Straal is smiling, because he already knows the answer. His cockiness will get him killed, someday, and Paul is sure of it.

Paul sighs in defeat. ‘Why not?’

Straal is practically _shaking_ with excitement, and begins rummaging underneath his bed for two decent-sized duffel bags. One is already filled; he throws the empty one at Paul, who catches it with clumsy hands. ‘I’d start packing, then. Our shuttlecraft will be ready in three hours.’

In three hours. Their own shuttlecraft.

Paul stands there for a moment, but then—

He raises an eyebrow in confusion. ‘...You already assumed I’d say yes.’

‘Maybe,’ Straal hums, facing toward the window, watching all the movement on campus.

‘Well, now I wanna say no,’ Paul murmurs, but he’s already starting to pack, his hair still a half-flattened mess, his clothes wrinkled and his eyes sleepy.

‘We’re _going,_ Stamets.’

 

* * *

 

Unfortunately for Paul, he finds Alpha Centauri absolutely _wonderful._ It’s like Earth, but so much better—everything seems a little brighter, a little more put-together, a little prettier.

(There are so many _wonderful_ gardens, with whole, towering greenhouses for mushrooms. Straal has to drag him away from each and every one, in fear of losing him forever to his work.)

Paul _really_ doesn’t want to leave. They’ve got another week to go, anyway, so they’re doing alright.

With books and pamphlets and notepads piled high in their room, they don’t need to work anymore. But there’s a smaller library on the edge of the water, in a little city of skyscrapers that curve and connect above their sea, and they might as well take the trip.

Straal has insisted on going alone, though, because Paul was up until all hours of the morning reading through their research, but promises to bring him back a few books on biota if he finds them.

So here’s Paul, buying too-bitter coffee in a floating coffee shop in the middle of one of the biggest cities in Alpha Centauri. He can’t even lie—the coffee may not be the best, but the café itself is beautiful, and the food is something else.

He’s having a wonderful morning, absorbed in his notes, except—

There’s….a noise.

An awful noise. What even is—

He looks up, toward the sound, and there’s…a _man._

A suspiciously attractive man, carrying a tray of cake and coffee, looking around for an empty table.

But more than that, he’s humming. It’s the most awful sound Paul has ever heard.

(Paul even tries to ignore the horrible feeling in his chest, that mixture of warmth and terror that he doesn’t recognise anymore. It feels new, and he wants it gone.)

A couple deposit their trays on the conveyer belt and walk out of the café hand-in-hand, and the man spots the empty table. He saunters over to it, shirt tight on his arms, stretching across his shoulders, and Paul is hit with the sudden realization that the man is still humming that disgraceful tune, and that the table he intends to sit at is not even ten feet from where Paul resides.

And Paul is a very busy man, with a lot of things to get done, and this distraction simply won’t do.

So when the man stops at his newly-claimed table and begins to lower down his tray, Paul calls out.

‘Hey—’ he says, and his too-wobbly voice betrays him; however, he stays strong, and pushes out his chest to show so. ‘Stifle it, or sit somewhere else.’

   

* * *

 

Hugh almost goes into shock.

There’s just something about hearing your words that’s so mesmerizing. No matter who says them, no matter how they’re heard, they’re still the most beautiful thing.

Hugh is living up to the stereotype. He almost drops his tray out of his now-lax grip, knees wobbly and ready to give out.

His _soulmate._ His soulmate is on Alpha Centauri. His soulmate is _angry at him._

It’s the most glorious thing Hugh has ever known.

And of course, this next moment makes all the difference. It’ll make that angry scowl turn into a smile, a glare turn into a gasp. He’s seen all this before—he knows the drill, by now.

Hugh turns slowly, and spots him. Spots the man with pale skin and blonde hair, the images off his hologram painting a constellation over his _Starfleet Academy_ t-shirt.

(And part of Hugh thinks about how his soulmate has been at the academy this whole time, so close yet still out of reach. He spills his coffee at the realization, the smallest drop onto his bundle of napkins, but doesn’t allow himself to truly falter.)

Hugh watches him for a moment—this beautiful, _beautiful_ stranger. The stranger Hugh has always known. The person he’s been waiting for, whether he knew it or not.

And he has to impress, right now, so he puts on his most charming smile and approaches the stranger’s table.

It takes a moment, but as soon as Hugh is close to the table, the stranger _glares_. He picks up his coffee with a too-steady hand, and directs every ounce of his attention back down to his PADD.

Hugh gives up the waiting game, then, and sits down across from the stranger, dropping his tray with a thud.

The stranger lifts his eyes, and he’s nothing short of offended. His eyebrows furrow, and he begins to pout, just a little. His hands freeze around his mug on the tabletop.

Hugh clasps his hands together, and leans forward.

‘I think I’m happy right where I am,’ Hugh murmurs.

And…that’s it.

But the stranger doesn’t speak. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t do much of… _anything._

Hugh still thinks this can all work out, up until the stranger grabs his PADD and _sprints_ out the door, sending both of their food trays crashing to the ground in his wake.  

 

* * *

 

It’s been three months. Three months since the beginning of summer, since Alpha Centauri, since… _everything._

Since Paul came face-to-face with his soulmate, and ran away.

Part of him hopes and prays that whoever that man was, he was messing around—maybe he’d seen Paul’s soulmark before, and maybe he thought he’d get something out of it. Maybe he wished to make a fool out of Paul in front of people he’s never met.

The man accomplished _something,_ anyway, because Paul hasn’t seen him since, and there’s been a numbness to his soul for weeks.

It isn’t even a conscience thing; he only notices it if he focuses. One bad day and it all comes crashing down.

Paul really believed that that man was his soulmate, in the short moment he had. But he ran away—scared of facing a truth like that, scared of the attachments, scared of the heartbreak that could prevail.

He’s heard of all the stories that go wrong; the people whose soulmate’s writing don’t match the kind on their skin; the people who hid their soulmarks and started down a path for company, jumping into holes they couldn’t dig themselves out of; people who loved and loved without soulmarks to tie them down, until the one for them came along, and everything got a little messy.

Paul doesn’t want that kind of complication. He wants his work. He can trust his research, he can trust _facts;_ he can trust his own mind.

He can’t trust the heart that beats wildly in his chest when he all but _thinks_ about that one summer’s afternoon.

None of that matters anymore, though. The summer is long gone. Now, he’s in his second year at Starfleet. Straal is getting ready just outside the door.

The Orion girl two floors down is having another party, and she tossed an invitation at Paul as he walked from Astrotheory to Botany. He can’t say no to that.

He’s actually getting _ready,_ this time. His red slacks are abandoned in his wardrobe, again. He has actual things to wear that aren’t from his teenage years, due to a little shopping trip he went on with his parents when he finally went home for the last two weeks of summer break. And now, with his hair gelled and his eyes wide with anticipation, Paul thinks he’s actually getting the hang of this, all over again.

He doesn’t need soulmates. He never has. He plans to actually enjoy a night out, for once. The workload has been piling on, even in the two weeks he’s been back, and he just needs one night to have a good time.

The Orion girl, Vala, welcomes Paul and Straal with hugs and kisses to the cheeks, and lets them inside within seconds. She’s always had a bigger dorm than most of the year, a privilege her night shifts in the medical bay have earned her. Even with the guarantee of extra space, it seems that the entire corridor has gotten involved, tonight; each door is wide open, and bottles litter every inch of the floor. Even the nightguards and upperclassmen have joined in, looking down at the younger years with a slight disapproval, but putting a stop to nothing.

They’re playing classical music again, Paul notes—he hears it in the tempo, the shouting, the strange array of sounds. He loses Straal within the first twenty minutes to a pretty science-track girl with purple hair and an air of shyness about her. Within minutes they’re half-dancing, half-swaying down the hall, bouncing their heads and laughing, and Paul wishes he had that kind of charm.

Vala finds Paul, talks to him for a bit. There’s something different about her, tonight, but Paul can’t tell what. Maybe it’s the way she keeps looking around for someone; maybe it’s the way she keeps tapping the glass of her bottle with her nail, like she’s waiting for something.

But the night itself is fun, and Paul doesn’t dance much but Vala does get him standing near the dancefloor, and when Straal returns he’s not with the purple-haired girl anymore, and he tries teaching Paul how to jive—something his parents had learned from _their_ parents, and so the trail went on. It’s a lot of silly feet movements and swinging arms and he can’t take it seriously at all.

But it’s so _lovely._ He’s jiving and laughing and drinking from a bottle he doesn’t even know if he owns, when he feels a tap on his shoulder.

He turns around. Vala is watching him with something new in her stare. Something excited.

‘I’ve gotta tell you something,’ she says, and reaches for his hand like they’ve been friends for a decade. He surrenders, and Straal watches him depart with a salute, before strolling over to the food table.

Vala leads Paul to the only area of the house that’s off bounds, tonight; her personal space, with her bedroom and all her valuables, including the medkit she’d die before losing. She grabs a card from her back pocket and unlocks the door with it, letting Paul step through while she lingers outside.

‘What did you need to tell me?’ Paul says, and turns around to face her again. Except, just as his eyes meet the door, where Vala should be standing, it clicks shut.

He walks back to the entrance, banging on the floor and saying how _this isn’t funny,_ but to no avail. He searches for a spare key card in the time he’s been thrown, and finds nothing. All he can hear is distant laughing, the vibration of music, and he drops down onto the edge of the bed and looks out the window. The night goes dark, and students flood the campus in different states of sobriety.

After what could’ve been twenty minutes, there’s the smallest sound nearby.

There’s a scratch near the door. A moment later, it clicks open.

‘Very funny, Vala,’ Paul drawls, and he’s wearing his best smirk as he turns around, arms crossed with his head cocked to the side.

Except—

Vala isn’t standing here. She isn’t in the doorway.

The man from Alpha Centauri, wearing an academy-distributed t-shirt and holding Vala’s keycard in his hand, is watching Paul a look strangely familiar to shock.

(Paul guesses that’s appropriate.)

He has never felt more ready to run. And oh, does he try. His feet are moving before he can comprehend it, and he’s so close to the door—to retreating back into the crowd and forgetting that he’s a person entirely. But then soft, careful hands grip his forearms and hold him in place, breath ghosting across his cheekbone, and Paul really can’t do this. He can’t prepare himself for this, right now.

He doesn’t move. He lets himself be held together by this man he doesn’t know, this man he doesn’t want to know, and listens to the distant shouts and the two of them breathing.

It’s almost peaceful. It could be beautiful, if Paul’s heart wasn’t threatening to burst from between his ribs, and if he wasn’t ready to melt into the ground.

‘Sorry for startling you,’ the man says, eventually, and Paul _hates_ how he could listen to that voice for _hours._ He hates how it automatically becomes the last thing he wants to hear every night.

So he plays it stubborn, and stays silent out of spite; he pretends to be hurting the man’s feelings, when he’s actually just hurting his own.

He focuses on the dusty corner of the room behind the door, like he can ignore the butterfly feeling in his chest if he tries hard enough. With his hands curled into fists and every bone in his body rigid, the man sighs. He starts to—

He starts rubbing his hands, every so gently, up and down Paul’s arms. He stands back a little, putting some space between them, but that motion is always there.

It’s incredibly calming. Unfortunately, Paul begins to unwind, and his fists unfurl.

‘I’m Hugh,’ the man says. Hugh watches Paul, unwavering, and steps back, drops his arms, once he’s sure that Paul isn’t going to run.

And Paul’s _trying,_ he really is, but he never wanted this. He was happy without this. He doesn’t need a soulmate, and it doesn’t matter if he _wants_ one, deep down inside. It doesn’t matter if the man in front of him is all that Paul has ever needed to dream of. It _doesn’t matter._

So why does it feel like it matters, more than anything else?

‘Paul Stamets,’ Paul says, and it’s quiet and whispered but still; progress. Hugh smiles, and Paul sees it from the corner of his eye. Something in him seems to loosen.

‘Nice to meet you, Paul Stamets,’ Hugh says, and he actually sounds pleased. He sounds happy that he’s stuck in a room with a man that rejected him the first time around.

_God,_ Paul regrets that. He’ll have to tell Hugh, sometime. Maybe now—

‘Do you remember me?’

Paul’s done for.

And Hugh’s not watching him with hope, or even exasperation. He’s watching Paul…because he can. He has a little fond glint in his eye, and he’s still smiling.

How many times has Hugh asked himself this? How many times in the last few months did he wonder if his soulmate even looked his way before disappearing?

Paul wants nothing more than to go back to that day and change his actions, and he doesn’t understand _why._ He doesn’t understand why this persistent, annoying, attractive man has such a hold on him.

And if his heart thrums with an answer, he pretends to ignore it.  

‘That’s a stupid question,’ Paul mutters, looking down at the floor like he couldn’t care less, even with his shaky palms and stuttering heart.

But Hugh isn’t discouraged, and he doesn’t move an inch from where he stands. ‘It’d still be pretty helpful if you answered it.’

Paul sighs, rubbing his palms together.

‘Yes, I remember you. I remember Alpha Centauri.’ He looks up, but can’t seem to meet Hugh’s eyes. His eyes trail over toward the door, like he could open it if he tries hard enough. ‘None of that matters.’

Hugh’s expression is cement-solid, but Paul can feel some secret part of the other man break. He has never liked to lie, and this feels like a step over the line.

When did emotion begin to matter this much? When did his heart decide to grow fonder?

Paul’s still staring bullet-holes into the door, and he hears Hugh sigh.

Hugh moves, and Paul moves with him, even though he never planned to. They sit down on the bed and it creaks underneath them. Here they remain, knees bumping together, two sets of hands nervously fidgeting in two different laps.

‘You know, I know my words off by heart,’ Hugh finally says, and two contrasting parts of Paul want to scream both _shut up_ and _speak until your lungs give out._ Hugh huffs out a quiet laugh, and shrugs. ‘I used to get laughed at, for them. People would wonder how somebody could be so _harsh_ toward the love of their life, you know? They wondered how I’d ever figure love out if that was my introduction.’

And Paul can tell that Hugh isn’t expecting an apology, but he wants to give one, anyway. He wants to apologise for _so many things._ It’s not his nature, and the whole thing feels strange.

‘But my father—he thought that sometimes, love just needs a little extra work.’ And then, Hugh starts smiling. There’s something childish in his distant stare. ‘He thought that sometimes rocky foundations last the longest. Some people just need to find their footing.’

And, at that…Paul looks up.

‘He told me that of all people, I was always going to be the one whose love needed a little extra push,’ Hugh murmurs, and they’re both staring. Paul is frowning from the sympathy he doesn’t deserve, and Hugh is smiling at the willingness he has to provide it. ‘I’ve never been one to take the easy way out.’

And that’s—well, without evening realizing, Paul has just gotten everything he needs. Because some part of him, hidden away and wrongly named _apathy_ has actually always been longing for somebody, or something, that promises to stay. He’s been waiting years for a promise, or a declaration.

And now, in a federation medical quarters, he seems to have found it.

Hugh wasn’t planning on giving up, Paul realizes. He would’ve waited. He would’ve searched.

Paul would’ve, too. It might have taken a few extra years, and a credit or two to his name, but he would’ve searched the stars for the man sitting across from him.

‘Sorry for being rude to you,’ Paul whispers, a secret, and Hugh _really_ looks at him, this time. His eyes go wide, but with more intrigue than shock. A small smile plays along his features. ‘It was…uncalled for.’

This is progress, he determines. This is the gentle introduction to love that he’s always needed.

‘It’s alright,’ Hugh says, and gently shrugs his shoulders. ‘These things are never meant to be easy, anyway.’

And _god,_ Hugh’s sitting here with that smile, and this previously unknown kindness to his voice, and Paul has never wanted to be more honest in his life.

‘I was scared that it was a fluke,’ he begins, and shakes his head to show the truth in it. He drops his eyes to the grey duvet behind them, fingers aching with constant movement. ‘I thought that maybe our meeting was a coincidence, or something. I was scared, and…I ran.’

‘That’s alright, too,’ Hugh says, and he’s so _good_ at this. He’s so good at making everything feel okay; it’s a talent Paul wishes he possessed. ‘But how about we try and clear up any doubts, yeah?’

Paul’s eyes flicker back up. ‘What do you mean?’

‘What are your words?’ Hugh asks, and then—

He pulls out a _marker,_ some old-fashioned thing children would use at home. _God._

Paul smiles a little; his whole face seems to brighten with it. ‘I’m pretty sure you know, already.’

‘C’mon, humour me,’ Hugh insists, and he’s smiling as he presses the lid of his marker onto the end. He holds an arm out in front of him, and grips the marker to let it hover just over the skin of his wrist. It’s almost like there isn’t a notepad on the bedside table less than a few feet away.

Hugh _really_ isn’t into the easy way out, apparently. Paul really fucking loves it.

He sighs before he speaks, but it’s happy, maybe even playful. He quotes his words like he hasn’t known them for years and _years,_ in his sleep and in every waking minute. _‘I think I’m happy right where I am.’_

And everything happens in a moment of silence, then. Hugh, quite messily, scribbles the words onto the skin of his wrist, text trailing up his arm, and he has to push up his sleeve to continue. He inspects it for a moment, once he’s done, and nods with approval.

He holds the pen out to Paul, then, and he takes it in a slight moment of shock.

Because…there are his words. Scrawled haphazardly onto Hugh’s arm. And if that wasn’t enough to have him trembling, that messy print is the exact same as the kind curled up against Paul’s ribs.

It feels strange, realizing that everything has been leading up to this. It’s strange to realize he almost tried to run away from it, but now he knows that he would’ve just been found again. It’s comforting.

He holds the marker in the tightest grip he can manage, and Hugh whispers the words for him to write as Paul rolls up the sleeve of his shirt.

_Hey—stifle it, or sit somewhere else._

He feels better, having apologised for his rudeness. It’s only been a few minutes, but he could almost laugh at the scenario, by now.

Hugh watches him as he writes, and becomes increasingly aware of all Paul’s little intricacies; the tilt of his head, the way he presses his lips together, the way his brows furrow.

And Paul would be self-conscious in front of anyone else, but not here, now now. Not when Hugh’s looking at him like a miracle, and he kind of feels like one, too.

Once Paul is done, it’s extremely apparent that there’s nothing to hide from, now. It’s truly a _yes or no_ scenario. Either the writing matches, or it doesn’t.

And Paul is very, _very_ aware that Hugh’s writing has been on him all along. From the gentle curve of Hugh’s smile to the confident lilt in his voice, this is _him._

Hugh hums. ‘It’s messier than I thought it’d be.’

‘Huh?’ Paul says, and looks up.

‘Your writing,’ Hugh continues, and his smile never wavers. ‘It’s messier on paper, but it’s nice that way. It’s more authentic.’

And part of Paul wonders if that’s a more…general thing. Maybe he’s a lot more authentic, under the surface. It’s the nicest kind of thought.

Hugh reaches up to rub at his own shoulder, an almost unconscious movement, the kind Paul knows all too well. ‘I think our logic is sound, don’t you?’

‘Yeah, it’s pretty good,’ Paul murmurs, and drops a hand down onto the duvet. His fingers spread out in the space between them, and his ducks his head to hide a gentle smile. ‘I’m sorry for running away from you on Alpha Centauri.’

Hugh laughs a little, and it’s the most beautiful sound. He ducks his head, too, and keeps his voice low. ‘I’m sorry for getting our friend to lock you in a room while I got changed after my shift.’

And Paul blanks, for a minute.

‘This was—’ He stutters, and his eyes go wide. ‘This was your idea?’

He doesn’t know why it didn’t occur to him sooner, but it all felt so planned. Vala leaving him alone in her room for a good ten minutes should’ve been the first warning sign, but he went along with it, anyway.

Not that Paul cares; this is the best surprise he would have wished for, on the most ordinary of nights. He may just come to parties more often, if Hugh is inclined to be at them.

‘I saw you a couple days ago, for the first time,’ Hugh explains, and it’s just Paul’s luck that he’s a cadet, too. Just his luck that they’ve been so close for so long, yet unaware. ‘I knew you’d at least _been_ at the academy, last summer. You had one of the Federation shirts on when we first met.’

Paul is staring, and is suppressing a grin. ‘You got Vala to lock me in her room, just so you could dress yourself up all nice.’

Hugh hums, and drops his hand down next to Paul’s on the duvet. ‘I don’t hear anyone complaining.’

‘That I am not,’ Paul murmurs, and lets their hands join. Sparks shoot through his veins as it happens and he wonders why he’s avoided this for so long.

 

* * *

 

It’s late. Paul can tell, because it’s just that little bit darker, and the air is just a bit colder. His arms are tense in his jacket, and he’s walking just a little closer to Hugh than he normally would.

(Not that he feels the need for an excuse to be close to Hugh; it’s something he loves, anyway. The proximity, after a lifetime apart.)

It’s only been four days; four days since the party, since _everything._ They would’ve done this a lot sooner if Hugh hadn’t been so damn busy with his hospital shifts, and if Paul didn’t have so many sessions booked in the lab with Straal that he’d be thrown into the black for cancelling.

Still, they try and talk everyday; it’s always little two-minute conversations with communicators, but anything counts. They see each other on campus, wave and smile. They make promises that they’ll go on a proper date as soon as they can, and Paul gets some kind of butterflies as he swears by it.

And now…here they are. Right after their first date, where they planned on going to an off-campus restaurant but got the reservations mixed up, so they sneaked into a theatre, instead, showing a bunch of old-fashioned films Paul had never heard of. Hugh, in contrast, was delighted, and explained everything to Paul as each movie progressed.

It was wonderful, and Paul felt like he could let down all of his carefully-positioned guards for the first time in an eternity. It has to have been years since he’s felt that free.

But now it’s over, and they’re going to have to wait another week before either of them have even a few hours of free time. And sure, that doesn’t seem like _that long,_ but Paul has never had this, before. He’s never had this freedom, and this longing, and this feeling of _home._ He really doesn’t want to pack it all up for another week, and go back to being the version of himself that the rest of the world knows.

He’s different, with Hugh. Even he can see it. And he likes it; he likes the lack of pressure to be anyone other than himself, at all times.

And now they’re walking, and it’s _freezing_ outside, tonight. They’re pressed close together with the lame excuse of warmth, bundled up in coats and scarves, their breath visible like smoke.

But there’s one other source of warmth, tonight; the only source that Paul would die before losing.

Hugh’s holding his hand. That’s pretty nice, too. And they’ve just been talking like nothing has happened, like Hugh didn’t pay for the food they bought because he _felt like being a gentleman,_ like Paul didn’t go on a twenty-minute ramble about astromycology and all the work he and Straal have been doing while Hugh watched and nodded with the most fond smile. Like Hugh didn’t moan and groan about his late hours and piles of work, both from class and the hospital, and Paul just chuckled. Like Paul didn’t make a joke to see Hugh smile again like nothing matters as long as they’re happy.

This is all has to come to an end, though, because they’re outside Paul’s building.

He doesn’t want to move. He knows Hugh has a shift tonight, but he doesn’t want him to leave. He just can’t seem to lift his eyes from their joined hands, and he can’t get himself to think about anything else.

It’s so _nice._ In this moment, he has nothing else to worry about.  

‘That was nice,’ Hugh murmurs, still standing on the green just outside the main door; their joined hands swing idly between them, and Hugh doesn’t even seem to notice.

(That’s a lie—he’s definitely noticing. There’s been this little, unconscious smile on his face ever since Paul went and breached the gap, entwined their fingers with a level of clumsiness. It’s the same smile he wore when Paul rambled, or when he got confused at all these silly 21st century movie plots, or when he was staring at Hugh from across the table with such intensity in the little restaurant they found that he forgot to order.

It’s a shy, kind smile, and Paul loves it. He loves knowing he caused it. It feels like his greatest achievement.)

Paul can’t really find his words, so he nods, instead. ‘Yeah.’

Hugh squeezes Paul’s hand, and his voice is light. ‘I’d really like to do it again, sometime.’

Paul looks up, just to see the lights that dance along Hugh’s cheeks and the fabric of his jacket, and the small smile he wears, and the way he’s closer than before.

Words haven’t returned to him, just yet. ‘I’d like that, too.’

Paul’s eyes shift from their entwined hands to the darkness of Hugh’s eyes in moonlight, to the way Hugh’s soulmark curls past the hem of his shirt and his unbuttoned jacket. ‘I really wish I could stay here for longer, but I have a shift tonight, and Dr. Benitz will never let me live it down if I show up late.’

‘Yeah—’ Paul says, and then realizes that he’s been staring with the same starry-eyed look and lovestruck tone.

He drops his eyes to the ground, and clears his throat. ‘I mean, I— Sorry.’

As miracles go, this one isn’t bad. Because their hands stay joined, and Hugh doesn’t seem bothered by Paul’s little moment at all.

‘It’s okay,’ Hugh says, amused. ‘It’s late.’

‘You just…’ Paul begins, and he falters, but he takes one look at Hugh and the words are clear. ‘You look really nice tonight.’

There. _There._ That wasn’t so hard, and nobody’s here to make fun of him for it, either.

And it’s worth it when Hugh’s face brightens completely, smiling from ear-to-ear, like he’s never heard it before.

He has to have heard it before…right? Somebody out there has to have told Hugh Culber that he’s consistently gorgeous. It has to _know._

‘Why, thank you, cadet,’ Hugh says, and grins. He reaches up with a free hand, and smoothes down Paul's collar from where it’s been knocked out of place by wind. ‘Don’t study too hard, tonight.’

Paul rolls his eyes, at that, and his voice drips with feigned annoyance. ‘You _know_ I have work to do.’

‘And that work will be there in the morning when you wake up,’ Hugh says, all matter-of-fact. He flashes a smug smile, because they both know who the more responsible one is, here. ‘Working yourself to the bone will get you nowhere.’

‘It’ll get me sent to medical, which I’m sure you wouldn’t mind,’ Paul mutters, and he’s so obviously suppressing a grin that he’s not sure how Hugh hasn’t burst out laughing, yet.

‘Oh, not at all,’ Hugh murmurs, and keeps himself busy by running his hand over Paul’s coat fabric. ‘I’ll just make sure McCoy gets to look at you, and then you’ll get an earful about proper work ethic.’

Paul scoffs. ‘Oh, yeah, because medical students working five-hour night shifts can lecture _me_ on when to go to sleep.’

Hugh smiles, and it’s a little suppressed thing, where he bites his bottom lip to hide it. He doesn’t even meet Paul’s eyes, and Paul loves everything about it. ‘Touché.’

There’s a moment of quiet.

‘I’d really like you to stay,’ Paul blurts out, and he feels like he might just collapse if he doesn’t get the words out. Hugh looks up with something akin to disbelief. ‘It feels selfish.’

‘I don’t think feelings are selfish,’ Hugh tells him, and from here, it sounds like reassurance. His hand moves to cup Paul’s shoulder. ‘And sometimes, a little selfishness can be good for you, you know?’

‘Maybe,’ Paul says, his eyes dropping to Hugh’s lips and staying there.

And now, he has a decision to make. A quick one, easy to make, with Hugh standing so close in the near-winter cold.

‘You should stay,’ he repeats, and then he moves closer to Hugh and kisses him.

It’s a little thing, testing the waters, but so much happens that time seems to forget how to process. They press momentarily close and Paul’s free hand goes to Hugh’s waist, to the belt of his coast, warmth trapped between fabric. Hugh jolts for a moment but then he’s pushing back, all gentle, and his grip on Paul’s shoulder tightens, moving until it’s pressed against his neck.

Paul pulls back, overwhelmed by absolutely _everything_ about this; he pulls back until he and Hugh are eye-to-eye, again, and tips his head, a little. He furrows his brows and makes it a question, and waits for Hugh to answer.

(Hugh’s smiling. He’s smiling that fond smile that Paul knows all too well, and his hand is warm on Paul’s neck.)

Hugh nods with all the gentleness of someone in a trance and then he’s moving, and _he’s_ kissing Paul, and it’s this beautiful back and forth of affection that Paul can’t believe he’s never known. It’s the slightest bit desperate with all that longing, and hands move to explore a body they’ve never known, but still keep respect and distance.

It all gradually slows. It goes from exploration to familiarity. Deep kisses transition to chaste, and constantly moving hands become slow and rhythmic, and eventually, after a lifetime, they pull away. Eyes open slow until they’re both staring, and swaying slightly, and feeling almost lightheaded at it all.

‘I’ve got to go,’ Hugh says, finally, as if only remembering now that they’re standing on a green outside a dormitory when he should be halfway across campus, by now. But he doesn’t seem to mind the delay; he’s smiling, and there’s something about him that looks a little brighter.

‘Alright,’ Paul says, and nods, because he _is_ alright with it, now. Something in him has been slotted into place; everything feels okay. He runs his hands up and down Hugh’s sides, as if to provide a lingering reminder of his touch. ‘Go be a genius.’

‘Go be a scientist,’ Hugh says, and kisses Paul’s cheek for good measure. He steps back, after, but their joined hands linger, a lasting grip between them. ‘Night.’

And with the thought of Hugh getting an earful when he finally strolls through the medbay doors, Paul nods. ‘Goodnight.’

Their joined hands finally drop, and Hugh turns to leave. Paul doesn’t know how long he spends on the green, but his hands are numb from the cold when he finally stumbles in and Straal asks where the hell he’s been.

 

* * *

 

Straal finds out about Hugh after three weeks, which is quite the timespan, for him. Considering his genius-level intellect, you’d think he’d put two and two together.

Even with all of Paul’s late nights out, and late returns in the morning, he hasn’t even batted an eye. Straal would just throw another booklet at him and say to _get off his ass, and start doing some work._

(Hugh absolutely resents this kind of conversation, at all times. When Paul lets him know that Straal’s been pushing them a little more lately, and that’s the reason why he fell asleep on Hugh’s sofa at three in the afternoon—straight before a class he very much missed—Hugh was moments away from storming over to Straal’s dorm and setting the record straight.

But Paul has convinced Hugh of the importance of their work once, so he does it again, and Hugh eventually gives up.)

Straal doesn’t find out in the most conventional way. Not that it has ever mattered to him who Paul is with, anyway—they both have friends, and for a long time they didn’t, so Straal’s _happy_ at Paul’s absence, most of the time. As long as nothing interferes with their booked lab times and all-nighters for research, he’s fine with whatever Paul does.

Except now, when Paul didn’t come home last night, _or_ this morning, and has seemingly forgotten about their lab session. Straal storms over to the lab, and throws open the door, just in case Paul made some kind of breakthrough that took him a good twelve hours to decipher—

But…he’s here. And, well, that’s good. At least he isn’t late.

Except there’s another man with him, sitting very lazily on a now-cleared table, fiddling with a potted plant that came from who-knows-where, while Paul putters around with a PADD in one hand and an apple in the other.

Straal lets the door click shut behind him, and hangs his coat up on the hook. Neither of them have noticed him, yet, and Straal really doesn’t know which scenario he’d prefer: one where he gets answers to what the hell is going on, or one where he can embarrass Paul later on for the awful sound he calls _laughter_ that he’s been making for the last thirty seconds, while the mystery man plants a hand on his shoulder and smiles like he’s lit up by the sun.

And Straal—well, he doesn’t know how much more of this he can take, so he steps forward and clears his throat, loud and sudden compared to the general silence of the room.

Paul startles, a little, spinning around to face the door with a less-than-casual demeanor, but the hand on his shoulder seems to be calming him down quote sufficiently. The man on the table turns himself around slowly, and meets Straal with an almost familiar smile.

Paul relaxes, and turns back to his PADD as he speaks. ‘You’re late, Straal.’

But there’s no real venom in his voice, and Straal can see the faint hint of a smile attempting to spread.

‘No, you’re just early,’ Straal mutters, and drops his bag onto the metal table with a rather loud bang, but there’s no annoyance there, either. They’e both been through this more times than they can count; Paul shows up late, Straal says so, and Paul tries to weasel his way out of trouble once again. It’s almost natural, now, to greet Paul like this. It’s as easy as a _hello_.

Speaking of which—

‘Who’s this?’ Straal asks, and waves his hand near the man with the potted plant, who has now begun rooting around in a folder next to him, stuffed to capacity with papers and booklets.

Paul looks over at Straal, and then at the man, like he’d forgotten they were here at all. ‘This is Cadet Hugh Culber. Medical track.’

And Paul spares the man, Hugh, a glance, something small and happy.

When Straal pulls out his folder of reports, he flips them over in his hands, walking past Stamets, glancing between the two of them. ‘Well, what is _Cadet Culber_ doing in our lab during our slotted time? Surely he has some…medical-track work to do.’

‘Well, I actually have all my work done, and I just got back from my shift a few hours ago,’ and then Culber starts _smiling,_ and he looks almost smug as he twists himself around on the table to face Straal, dropping the potted plant onto the table with a clink. ‘But we’re going on a date at four and _Cadet Stamets_ really wanted some company while he gets his work done ahead of time.’

And that—

Well. Straal doesn’t mean to freeze. He doesn’t mean to look taken aback, but it happens anyway, and Culber starts to laugh quietly when Straal’s folder flops ungracefully onto the table, and his eyebrows begin to furrow.

While Straal seems to _process,_ Culber shifts closer to Stamets and, stage-whispering, says, _‘This_ is Straal?’

Paul nods, dipping his head in a _what can you do?_ gesture, and laughs as his eyes trail over toward where Straal stands. Culber’s hand goes back to Stamets’ shoulder, and he starts to read over their notes.

_(Of course_ Stamets had to go and find himself a genius _and_ a doctor, who apparently understands everything they’ve been working on.

Unless Culber can’t, and is actually just pretending. In that case, Straal’s grudge against this man is just developing further.)

‘Just—’ Straal begins, and falters. Stamets laughs, and covers it up with a cough hidden by his hand. ‘Stamets, you’re going on a _date?’_

‘Well, I’ve been doing it a lot, lately,’ he says, as nonchalant as ever, as if it’s to be expected. He doesn’t even look away from the screen. ‘It seems I actually _can_ be dedicated to two things at once, despite what you have to say.’

Straal thinks for a second, because this just doesn’t make sense. ‘But what about the guy? The really obnoxious hummer from Alpha Centauri?’

And a lot of things seem to happen, all at once.

For one, the entire atmosphere of the room seems to shift. But it’s not negative, no; something amusing happens, even if Straal can’t seem to understand.

Stamets seems to…jolt, where he stands, but Culber barely moves. And after a moment, and a meeting of their eyes, both of them _laugh._

‘You know, I didn’t think my humming was _that bad,_ ’ Culber grins, and shrugs. ‘I thought you might have just been extremely hungover.’

Stamets shake his head, and it’s almost like a full-body thing, needlessly dramatic. ‘I was sober as ever, and it really _was_ awful.’

And with that, pieces of the puzzle begin to fall into place.

The closeness of them both, how comfortable their company seems to be. The exchanged glances as Straal’s head fills with question. The way they egg him on, waiting for him to _realize._

And then Straal remembers that, in his half-drunken haze at Vala’s party just a few weeks prior, that somebody new had arrived close to the midnight mark. Vala had approached them with overwhelming excitement, leading them down the hall to where she’d previously brought Stamets.

_When she had returned, she had stepped close to him, and sighed. ‘I love playing matchmaker.’_

_‘Hmm?’ Straal had murmured, his drink still half-raised to his lips._

_Vala shrugged, her arms wrapped around his middle. ‘He said they met in the summer, and their soulmarks matched. If I need to lock Stamets in a room with Culber to make him see sense, then so be it.’_

And suddenly, the memory’s clear as day.

‘You’re…you—’ And Straal points directly towards Culber, nodding his head in recognition, and a little bit of excitement. ‘You're the guy from the party! The one Vala helped out.’

Stamets whips around, then; his eyes narrow as he focuses in on Straal with a confused half-glare. ‘You were in on that, too?’

‘Half the people in that room were in on it, Paul,’ Culber says.

Straal hums, but it wavers, and then he starts _laughing._ Stamets is watching him with concern, but all Straal can think about is how _brilliant_ this situation is—how Stamets’ _soulmate_ is sitting here, blending into their surroundings like he’s been here all along. ‘Oh, this is great. Do you know all the shit I could spill about you?’

Stamets’ eyes go wide, then, an almost comedic expression. ‘Oh no.’

And Straal wanders over toward Culber, then, nonchalant and unable to conceal his smirk. ‘Do you want to know how many times he called you _handsome_ on the shuttle back to Earth? It was a _lot_.’

‘Straal—’ Stamets groans, but Culber is grinning, wild and bright.

‘And I think he spent a day or two trying to find you in Starfleet archives,’ Straal continues, ‘just incase you were some royal family member of another planet that he’d just insulted.’

‘ _Straal—’_

‘And after he was done with that, he just lay on his bed for a few hours, saying how he’d just _ruined his life_ and how his only friends were the mushrooms in his lab—’

Stamets huffs, and stands up a little straighter.

‘Would you look at that? I’m finished work earlier than expected,’ he grumbles, each word stark and pronounced, as if to make a point. He snatches his bag off the table and drops his PADD inside it, moving toward the door and firmly grabbing Culber’s hand as he does so. ‘Guess you’re going to have to sort the rest of this out on your own, Straal.’

‘Aw, c’mon, Stamets!’ Straal shouts as they reach the door, but nobody’s angry. ‘It’s not like you have anywhere else to be!’

‘I’ve got a date, actually,’ Paul says, grabbing his coat.

And just before the two of them step out, hand-in-hand and smiling, Straal manages to shout, ‘I’m not letting you in if you’re back after midnight!’

 

* * *

 

Hugh can tell that Paul’s nervous before he even steps through the door. There’s just some kind of _air_ about him, some sort of energy that has him shaking beneath in his uniform, the collar mussed up and the zip half-pulled. And it’s part fear and part excitement as he makes his way over the threshold, slumping as he moves across the floor before dropping down onto the sofa, face first.

Paul’s always a lot more professional about his times of upset, Hugh has noticed. There’s less moping, more pacing. He stands a little straighter instead of slumping, voice a whisper instead of a groan. He’s more uptight, than anything.

So this—this lazy kind of attitude, it allows his excitement, his moments of _what if_ to shine through.

Hugh doesn’t even have to think about the reason for all of this. Within a second, the resolution is clear as day.

They’re getting assigned, tomorrow. They’re getting their assigned ships. Paul is worried about two things.

The first, well—the first is simple. It’s obvious. He’s top of almost all his classes, loved by teachers and admired by the students in the lower years. He wants to be assigned to a ship that can test his limits, reinvent his expectations, tackle all that science can be. He wants a captain whose bravery and heart he can aspire to, who can better him, and let him better others. He doesn’t want an average crew who couldn’t care less about the miracle of science and discovery, or so he’s told Hugh.

The second worry takes up just as big a space in his mind—a lot more personal, too.

He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to work sufficiently, and with dedication, if Hugh and Straal aren’t with him on his assigned ship.

Hugh can’t blame him; he has that fear, too, buried deep down under work and budding excitement. And if Straal’s face when he, Hugh and Paul leave the lab is anything to go by, then Straal’s a little fearful, too.

So here’s Paul, trying to melt into the sofa like a bed of quicksand, scared of too many things he can’t control. And that’s the worst type of fear, isn’t it? The kind where everything you want is just too far from reach—the kind where you have to just stand by and let it all happen.

Hugh lets the door shut with the quietest click, and whispers a _lights, fifty percent._ He moves closer to Paul, approaching the sofa where his head lies, his socked feet silent against the polished floor. He crouches down, knees pressing into the sofa cushion, and lifts a hand to run it gently through the hair at the back of Paul’s neck. He moves to rub at Paul’s shoulder, before pressing the lightest kiss to his jaw; the smallest promise. The kind of action that says _you can tell me anything_ without the words.

‘You know,’ Paul begins, and his voice is quiet; a little self-deprecating. ‘I heard some guys talking before class, today.’

‘About what?’

‘About me,’ Paul says, and almost laughs; he huffs out a breath, instead, and any remnants of Hugh’s smile falls. ‘They think I’m going to get assigned to the USS _Fafnir.’_

And that’s—

That’s just _awful._ Because Paul is a brilliant scientist, and a dedicated student, and he deserves to be on the best ship that Starfleet can offer him. And for his classmates, his possible fellow crewmembers, to undervalue him like this—to ignore his achievements and all the things to be, and talk about him behind his back? To make Paul doubt himself—  

‘You’re too good for the Fafnir, and everyone knows it,’ Hugh says, and means it like a vow. He moves to run his hand through Paul’s hair, gentle and calming. ‘If you _do_ get assigned to the Fafnir, which you won’t, I’ll have a few choice words for the overseeing council.’

‘There won’t be anything you can do about it,’ Paul says quietly, and shrugs with defeat. ‘These decisions are final.’

Hugh just can’t believe Paul is the person saying this, the day before one of the biggest decisions of his life. He can’t believe that this is his love, his _soulmate,_ with all of his pessimism, yet determination to get through it all; his eventual hope when he can see the end result in sight. He can’t understand how Paul is saying all of this, right now, and almost expecting Hugh to agree.

And Hugh—he can’t do it. He’d never think of it.

‘These decisions also reflect who you are, and what you’ve done. Your and Straal’s studies haven’t gone unnoticed, you know.’ He says, soft as moonlight but just as meaningful as a rolling tide. ‘You’ll get assigned to the Terigon.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘Then you’ll get the Corsair, or the Yucatan, or even the Sunder,’ Hugh says, because they’re all good ships, with good potential. ‘They don’t waste brilliance at Starfleet, Paul.’

And it’s true. They’ve seen people who’ve been lifted to the point of stardom, and part of Hugh wishes to be one of them. But Paul can’t believe that he’ll ever see himself up there, admired, respected like that.

(And if there’s more than his scientific achievements to that—if the gender of his soulmate has ever been an issue, which it has, they only discuss it once or twice. If Paul ever comes home from a night out with Straal with a bloody nose and a broken finger from an incorrectly-formed fist, Hugh cleans it and wraps it with gentle fingers.

He knows that Paul is affected by it all, sometimes. Hell, so is Hugh, more than he’d ever admit. It’s never been _easy,_ and history has shown it, but sometimes you just have to endure. Sometimes, falling is the easiest way to push yourself off the ground.)

Paul scoffs, and pulls his hands away from his eyes, blinking into the black-spots and the stars as he turns his head to look at Hugh. ‘Which is why _you’re_ going to be assigned to the Terigon, and I’m going to be assigned to some starship that runs five discrete scientific missions at most. Or I’ll be put on a combat-oriented ship and sent out to patrol, and I’ll be undervalued. Or you, me, and Straal will be put on different ships, and I’ll have nothing but subspace radio to keep me company—’

Paul quietens at Hugh’s exasperated expression. ‘We’re not going to be assigned to different ships, Paul. Don’t worry.’

‘How can you _not?_ ’ Paul says. ‘How are you so calm about this?’

And _that—_ Hugh can’t really explain it.

But when he was younger, hopeful and honest and appreciative in all the ways that still count, he was taught that compassion is almost always the solution. He was taught that nothing—not a gun, not a fist, not a threat—can be as powerful as words of inspiration. He was taught to help others and be grateful if they returned the gesture, but not to ask for it. He was taught that sometimes life needs to run its course, even if that course is in ruin, to get you out on the brighter side.

He was taught that maybe dismay inspires hope, and hope inspires change, but you can’t choose what order they come in.

‘All I need is a little hope to keep me going,’ he says instead, and gives Paul an encouraging smile. ‘I trust that the three of us will get what we deserve.’

‘And what do we deserve, doctor?’ Paul asks, and he shifts forward in a playful manner but he’s every inch intrigued, all the more curious.

‘To go down in the history of a ship like the Terigon for saving lives and stretching scientific boundaries,’ Hugh says, and shrugs, like he knows their path already. He says it like it’s what he’s always known; that he and Paul are destined for the greatest things, and their meeting on Alpha Centauri those two-or-so years before set it all off. He says it like they’ll have to sit through the storm to admire the way the world looks after it. He says it like there are beautiful things to come.

Paul’s smiling, now, and that’s all the reassurance Hugh needs. Paul smiles, and his fears melt into the puddles of a world after a rainstorm.

‘Mhm, that sounds pretty nice,’ Paul says, and he’s shifting closer, _waiting_ for Hugh to move like the tease he is. And Hugh does, because he always will.

So they kiss, and Hugh’s half-aware of the way his knees hurt where they’re pressed into the wooden floor, the rug spread over it. But it all disappears, and they kiss for a little while longer, all sighs and ever-shifting hands and smiles.

‘So, do you believe me now?’ Hugh says after they pull away, still dazed and as surprised as if it were the first time. ‘That you’ll be assigned to a ship that you’ll be valued on?’

‘I’ll believe it when I hear the words,’ Paul half-grumbles with a lilt of humour, and his lips turn up with a smirk.

‘Stubborn little—’ Hugh grumbles with no venom, and kisses Paul again, just because he can, just because the world has a plan for the two of them and seemingly always has.

Paul’s hand is now pressed against Hugh’s neck, with a thumb brushing lines over his jaw. He smiles something new. ‘Thanks for the pep-talk and everything, but I really just came over for dinner.’

And Hugh just—

He launches himself from the sofa like it’s burning, and stomps off toward the kitchen.

‘Oh my God,’ he half-yells, turning the corner and angrily snatching the dish towel where it’s crumpled up on the counter. ‘You’re ridiculous.’

He hears Paul laughing, and Hugh has his back turned as Paul stumbles off the couch and through the kitchen door. ‘Our fridge has been empty for days! Straal refuses to restock it—’

‘I can’t believe I’m dating a freeloader,’ Hugh grumbles, and throws the dish towel in Paul’s vague direction, looking through the fridge for nothing in particular (and mostly to hide his ever-growing smile). Paul appears to catch the towel, and waltzes past Hugh with it, trying and failing to hit Hugh’s ass; he reaches his thigh, instead, and mumbles out an annoyed, “oh my _God,”_ before Hugh starts laughing, and then Paul follows suit, and they don’t seem to stop for the whole evening.

 

* * *

 

Stamets, Culber, and Straal are all assigned to the USS Terigon on a pink-skied Friday morning, with plans for science, dignity and discovery in mind.

**Author's Note:**

> come chat on tumblr: [@dandymot](http://dandymot.tumblr.com)


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